Couples
by shaunamac
Summary: Okay, I suck at summaries, but essentially, this is going to be a selection of 100 one-shots inspired by one word prompts. In each one-shot, there will be at least one main pairing, with potential side pairings being glimpsed at! I hope you all enjoy, constructive criticism is always welcome! Rated M for language, because I'm overly cautious and new to this!
1. Dance: WinterWidow

Chapter 1: Dancing Among the Targets

Assassins do not dance. Bucky remembered hearing that, years back, years and years ago. Before his metal arm, at any rate. Some dumb movie himself and Steve went to see. It must've had some form of assassin, because on the way out, some broad made the mistake of expressing her desire to jive with the leading man. "Assassins don't dance, doll!" Her lover had insisted in a haughty tone, his arm slung around her shoulder like a heavy scarf.

It wasn't true, anyway. Assassins danced, or at least, they did in the Red Room. Being silent, agile, and graceful was all part of the trade. And while he wasn't ever gonna be as sleek and elegant as the women in the Red Room, let alone Natasha, he still knew how to dance. And, it became clear. So did she.

He made it clear in his mind. If she ever asked him what he was doing there that day, he'd tell her that he wanted to grab a glass of water. That he was thirsty after training, and out of habit returned to the main kitchen to rehydrate, rather than the fountains that lined the gym.

The music was classical. Not the loud shit that Stark listened to in the labs, but a dainty, breath taking melody, the swell of the violin and the sweet pitch of the piano floating out with haunting flow. Natasha was standing in front of the radio, her back to him, her head tilted slightly to one side. The sight was so familiar, and yet so different. She wasn't with the other girls, nor was she shivering in the tight black leotard. The rays of sunlight shone through the windows, catching her hair and illuminating her in a heavenly halo.

Why the fuck did he do what he did in that moment? Was it muscle memory, or some crap that the therapists came up with? No. Well, it was possible, but those guys told him that he wouldn't be aware of what he did when it came to that stuff. And he knew exactly what he was doing when he placed his glass down. When he crossed the floor without making a damn sound. And when he placed his organic hand on hers, gently, oh so gently.

Natasha turned around slightly, but didn't look up for a moment. She simply regarded their hands quietly. He didn't move a muscle. Hell. He scarcely breathed. She had that hold on him as Natalia Romanova, and she had it on him now, as Natasha Romanoff. Strange, how some things never change. Bucky finally allowed himself to breathe once she placed her other hand on his metal shoulder, light as a feather, and then guided him across the marble tiles.

Neither of them had to stop to remember the steps. Nor did they laugh, blush, or apologise for the wrong moves they never made. Bucky simply allowed his feet to match hers, guiding them swiftly across the empty room, trying to ignore how pain stakingly familiar it felt to have her in his arms once more.

"You're getting sloppy." She remarked suddenly, curtly. Did he imagine the catch in her voice?

"It's been forty years." He reminded her. Her captivating green eyes fixed on his face, and she responded briskly.

"That's not an excuse." The music stopped abruptly, and she stepped back, breaking the physical bond that had formed between them. "I'll see you at dinner, Sergeant Barnes."

"Until then, Agent Romanoff." He replied softly. As she walked away, part of him longed, yearned, beseeched him to go after her, to go down on his knees and beg for forgiveness. Because he'd left her. He HAD been sloppy. And if he'd just stopped to take the time to cover their tracks, to make sure nobody noticed, then maybe they could've had a few more years of holding one another in the cold Russian cells, of finding hope and light in the darkness.

Watching her leave, however, he couldn't help but feel the faintest glimmer of hope. Hope that, maybe, one day, they'd be able to meet one another. Discard their courtesies and stiff composure.

Hope that one day, Natasha and Bucky could continue the ways of Natalia and James.


	2. Treat: ScarletVision

When Vision returned from the mission in Bucharest, the last thing he expected to register was the scent of cinnamon, burnt sugar and chocolate. He so rarely acknowledged any of his new-found senses, that the realisation that he had them was still jarring. He ran through the process of elimination, and made a logical assumption that one of Agent Wilson's sisters had left them a plate of baked muffins.

Given this level of thought, he glided into the kitchen with the intention of covering the plate, when he stopped in the doorway. It wasn't a Wilson in there. No. It was Wanda. He felt a strange tightness in his chest, and looked down for a moment, struggling to analyse his emotions and chemical responses.

"Vision?" Wanda sounded surprised, and he regarded her for a moment, unsure of what to do, nor say, in her presence. She was dressed in an oversized sweater, and thick black tights, which she glided across the room in. Her hair was loose, and her rings were placed to one side.

"Wanda. I didn't... I apologise, I didn't realise you were cooking." he explained carefully, descending until his feet touched the ground. Her gaze remained on him for a moment, and a little smile broke free on her lips.

"I am. Or, I was." she corrected herself. "How was your mission?"

"Successful. Letitia Dominguez is now being taken to a maximum security prison."

"Good. I'm glad."

"Yes." he couldn't leave it like that. As much as he wanted to prepare himself, he couldn't just walk away from her now. "What were you cooking, might I ask?"

"Many things." she replied, pausing for a moment as she checked on the oven. "There was a recipe book in the library."

"Yes, I believe that was an attempt on behalf of Agent Barton to make the base more domesticated." he agreed benignly. Wanda laughed slightly, an uncommonly lovely sound, and he felt a strange stirring motion in his chest as he smiled over at her. Tony had told him some time ago that he was unintentionally funny. Was this a key example of that?

"And is it working?" she asked him.

"It certainly seems to be, now." he agreed softly. When her green eyes flicked up to him in surprise, he felt his eyebrows lift a touch in a similar emotion.

"Would you like to try some?"

"Some?" He felt bizarrely foolish, and tried to gather up some form of logic to try and deduce what she was talking about.

"Of the desserts." she clarified, gesturing to the window ledge that the baked goods were sitting on. He straightened his posture slightly, placing his hands on the counter, as he'd seen Tony and James do countless times.

"My taste buds-"

"Aren't too developed, yes, I'm aware. Perhaps we can develop them now?" Wanda offered tentatively. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He couldn't bring himself to say no. Had it been Tony, or Sam, or Peter, then yes, he might've been able to do it, but not to her. Not to Wanda. And that's how they ended up sitting at the counter, an hour later, eating rhubarb cobbler fresh from the dish.

The thing was, he knew that they couldn't side step around the metaphorical elephant in the room much longer. Otherwise, Vision could've sat with her in the kitchen, eating cobbler, drinking in her beauty until the world ended. But he didn't. Instead, he spoke up, and this time, he did so haltingly.

"Wanda... I truly am sorry, for... For not being of greater help to you." he began quietly. She swallowed a spoonful of rhubarb, and shrugged one of her slender shoulders casually.

"You were in Bucharest." she reminded him, misunderstanding, he assumed.

"That's not what I mean." he told her gently, one magenta hand cradling the dish of cobbler.

"I know." she admitted softly, lifting her gaze to meet his. "Vision, you shouldn't blame yourself when you did everything you could."

"I didn't. I shouldn't have let you leave."

"Vision..."

"You wouldn't have been out there, vulnerable, afraid. I might not have experienced those yet, but I understand how they must feel-"

"Vision, stop." Wanda pulled the dish from his lap, moving closer to his side and lacing her fingers with his. "Don't. Don't do that to yourself. You warned me. You tried to stop me. And I threw you through the earths crust." When he was about to protest, her hand flew up, and her thumb rested against his lips gently. "We can spend centuries arguing over whose fault it was. But you saved me. You gave me hope. A reason to fight on and live. A... A reason to become a better person." she added softly, dropping her gaze.

"You already are good, Wanda." he replied quietly. And this time, when she looked up in surprise, he captured her lips in a soft, brief, sweet kiss. It tasted like rhubarb and sugar and spices, and it only lasted a moment, a fleeting, yet memorable moment for the two of them. When he pulled away, Wanda gently moved her hand from his shoulder to his cheek, caressing it lightly.

"Because of you." she replied tenderly, her voice quiet, breathy, and loving. When she walked away, Vision felt a surge of something good and strong inside of him. The tightening in his chest released itself, and he placed the dish on the side of the sink, a tiny, hopeful smile on his lips.

Maybe everything would be alright, after all.


	3. Sand: BrucexTony

**Authors Note:** This one is set post-Civil-War, as they all are. However, this is my first time working with science bros, or any other form of homosexual relationship. I hope I did okay! I'm pretty sure I didn't, but oh well! Reviews are graciously accepted, with constructive criticism, if you please!

* * *

The phone call had arrived at the craziest, stupidest, most Bruce Banner moment of Tony's entire life. He hadn't expected it. He didn't really think he wanted it, _either._ Even though, deep down, he really did miss the guy. More than he thought he would. Tony had been in the lab, trying to clear out some of the stuff Bruce had brought in. That was a mature thing to do, right? A sensible, logical thing? All that utter bullshit that Pepper wanted.

So, when the phone rang, and he had a bunch of Bruce's notes stuffed into a drawer, he didn't really consider the possibility that it might actually be Bruce himself. "Stark." he greeted the caller wearily, rubbing the bridge of his nose. A distinct buzzing sound draped the voice that left his phone like a veil, but it was still audible enough for him to know who it was the second he heard the greeting.

"Hi, Tony." Bruce greeted him pleasantly. Hi. Hi. As if nothing had happened. As if the scientist hadn't cleared off six months ago, leaving the biggest, emptiest fucking gap in his life. As if Tony hadn't spent the last three months crying himself to sleep in a drunken stupor, and the three before it searching every corner of the planet for him. Hi. As if Tony's heart wasn't broken enough already.

"Banner." he forced himself to reply. "You're..."

"Alive." he agreed amicably. "And so are you."

"Yeah."

"So... To celebrate that, what were you planning on doing?"

Fucks sake, Bruce. "Drinking and screwing." he replied boldly, trying to show that he truly didn't give a shit whether or not he'd just spent the last three months trying to shut him out, only for it to go down the pan with a phone call.

"Really?"

"Yup. I got this great bottle of scotch waiting for me in the kitchen."

"Tony..."

"What about you? Planning on turning green?" he asked bitterly. What the fuck was wrong with him? He'd spent the last six months hoping and praying and begging for Bruce to at least look their way, and now... When Bruce responded, he sounded quiet and a touch bashful.

"I... I actually haven't turned green in four months, now."

"Four months?"

"Yeah. That's why I was calling, I think going to Hawaii really fumed me out." he explained earnestly. "You should come visit."

"Just like that?"

"Why not?"

"Well..." He tried to think of a good reason. One that overrode his longing to go to Bruce and stay with him. Keep him safe. But he couldn't. "Fine!" He snapped, then hung up.

Five hours later, he was walking through the beach, following the co-ordinates like a good little scientist. When he finally reached the agreed rendezvous point, he was wiping sweat from his brow, and had to remove his sunglasses to rub his eyes free of the fresh, salty air. Maybe that was why, when he lowered his hand, he thought Bruce was a mere mirage.

For starters, Bruce now had an incredible tan, and lean muscles, neither of which he really had in Manhattan. His hair was ruffled in the sun-kissed breeze, and he had an easy grin on his lips, one that grew when he walked over to the startled Stark.

"You made it." he remarked gently.

"Yeah." His throat began to close up, and he dropped his luggage on the shore to embrace Bruce. The second the travelling scientist had his arms around him, Tony buried his face into his shoulder, closed his eyes, and shook silently for a good, long while.

That night, after giving Tony a tour of his new, isolated paradise, Bruce cooked up some fish and vegetables on a pan, and they ate together while talking about the latest progresses in thermonuclear science. Bruce had set up the adjoining room carefully, leaving a jug of cool water beside the bed, fresh linen, and clean night clothes. His own room was filled with books, notes, and geneticists journals that had been sent to him over the months.

Tony had brought a bunch of sleeping medication, herbal remedies, and lavender oil with him, all to try and ensure a few good nights sleep. And he took as much as he could without effectively killing himself, dousing the pillow in lavender oil, playing classical music, drinking water mixed with the herbal crap that Wanda praised so highly. But, like clockwork, he ended up having the same nightmare.

 _Steve, raising his shield. Bucky, killing his parents with a sick, twisted grin. Steve slamming the shield down with a metallic screech, his face contorted with rage as he tried to force it down through Tony's suit. He fucking hated the suit in his dreams. It was designed to protect him, and yet it only increased the suffocating pressure in his chest..._

"Tony!" Bruce was shaking him awake, and Tony lurched up, grabbing onto his sleeve frantically. To his credit, the kind doctor didn't step away. Instead, he moved his hand up to rest on Tony's shoulder. "Tony, Tony, it's okay! It's okay, I'm here..." he assured him gently.

"H-He..." Tony tried to swallow, his throat dry and rasping. "Cap..."

"It's okay..." Bruce soothed him quietly, reaching for the pitcher of water. Once Tony had taken a drink that Banner was pleased with, he set it down, and then stood up. He was about to leave, when Tony stopped him.

"Bruce..." he looked up sheepishly, and attempted to find a good, logical reason for Bruce to stay, other than the fact that he was scared, and he missed him, and goddamnit, but he truly, truly missed falling asleep beside him. Luckily, Bruce didn't need that reason, nor any other justification. He simply turned around and settled on the bed beside Tony. One arm went around his shoulder, and Tony found his head resting against his chest without a single word.

As they laid there, hearts beating as one, Tony felt more at peace. Had it really been a year since they'd last done this? A year since Ultron threw everything to shit? A year since they saved the world and broke apart? He didn't know anymore. All he knew was, Hawaii was a place of solitude and serenity for Bruce. A place that he had no right to disturb.

Maybe, one day, Bruce would find it in himself to return to them. But until that day, that wonderful, joyous day... Tony was perfectly happy in the knowledge that he'd be safe over here, hidden in the green, without turning green himself.


	4. Salt: T'Chilson

Authors note: This is dedicated to my wonderful, amazing, brilliant friend, Chels, who turned me into a crazed shipper. Do I regret it? Not one bit! Hope you all enjoy, and as always, reviews are adored and worshipped! Feel free to drop in a pairing that you'd like to see in the collection!

* * *

T'Challa was, in Sam's eyes, oblivious to the greasy, salty, sugary delights that hid in the diners of New York City. Adorably oblivious, though he'd never admit it. Not to Steve, not to James, and certainly not to T'Challa himself. But he was still fucking clueless, and it was pretty damn clear that something needed to change. So, when the opportunity arose one Saturday, he seized it with both hands.

"Tony needs to restock the freezer, we're all outta food." Sam sniped as he returned from the kitchen. Wanda looked up from the magazine she was reading through with Vision.

"There's vegetarian lasagna. James made it-"

"I ain't touching it with a ten foot pole if Rhodes made it." Sam replied firmly, suppressing a shudder at the memory of last Thanksgiving. Deep down, he didn't think it would've been nearly as bad, if Thor hadn't left Mjolnir on the toilet seat.

"I must admit, I'm feeling rather hungry, myself." T'Challa agreed from the hanging chair, placing his book down on the coffee table. Sam tried to look relaxed, but even Vision noticed the way his face lit up.

"I know this place in Brooklyn, does the best double cheeseburger in the country." he suggested, jerking a thumb at the door. "Sound good?"

"Yes, yes, lead the way, Samuel!" T'Challa agreed eagerly, grabbing his car keys and heading out after him. Wanda exchanged knowing looks with Vision when they left, which changed into smiles when Sam spoke up outside.

"It's Sam, dude. Sam. I don't know who this guy Samuel is, but he ain't me."

"Yes, Sam, of course. My profound apologies." he responded with a touch of faint amusement.

When they arrived at the diner, Sam was trying to wrap his mind around the bizarreness that was Wakandan cuisine. "So, lemme get this straight. You guys don't drink soda?"

"It's processed! But we do have wine, and fruit juices."

"Do you guys have beer?"

"It isn't native. But my father brought some in a few times." T'Challa looked nostalgic, and Sam placed a hand on his shoulder, offering a warm, kind smile. The king couldn't ignore the little leap in his stomach at the friendly gesture, and chuckled faintly, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. "But I doubt many of my people would have enjoyed the flavour."

"They don't know what they're missing." Sam laughed, sinking into a booth. The waitress spotted him, and broke into a little smile, walking over to them cheerily.

"Hello, fellas! What'll it be? The usual, Sam?"

"The usual for me, if you please, Nikki!" he agreed good naturedly. "Two bottles of water too, if it isn't too much trouble."

"You got it! What about you, sir?" The perky brunette asked, addressing T'Challa. He looked up at her in surprise, then over to Sam, his lips parted as he tried to figure out how to respond.

"You know what, you might like what I'm having. Take a leap of faith with me, 'kay?" Sam suggested, a charming grin on his lips. T'Challa felt his lips turn up into a little smile, and nodded.

"Yes, please, kind lady." he agreed, bowing his head respectfully towards her. Her eyebrows lifted in surprise, and she laughed slightly, before covering her mouth instantly and pointing to the kitchen.

"Five minutes, guys!" she assured them, before walking from the table. Just as she headed into the kitchen, Nikki turned around and gave Sam the double thumbs up. She approved whole heartedly.

"Did I do something wrong?" T'Challa asked, puzzled by her response.

"You? No, no! Nah, you're fine, Tee. Nikki's just... She isn't really used to nice guys like you treating her with respect." Sam placed his arm on the back of the bench, the smile lingering as he regarded T'Challa intently.

"That's unfortunate. I believe everyone deserves respect." he replied solemnly. As he continued to speak about the equality and fair treatment he strove to provide his people, Sam couldn't help but marvel at him. How the sweet shit was this guy so caring? So compassionate? His father had been killed by a guy who wanted them all to suffer, a guy whom T'Challa had taken in to custody, even when the guy was all set to kill himself. He'd been electrocuted by Natasha three times, if not more, and yet still worked with her, still made her coffee in the morning, like he did with everyone. How the fuck was T'Challa still able to hold his morals, his beliefs, in this world?

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ramble." T'Challa faltered once he saw Sam was staring at him. Nikki returned with the food; Sam tried to use the steam rising from the plates as an excuse for his red face.

"No! No, God no, I wasn't... I wasn't bored, Tee. I just... I mean, you're amazing, dude. You actually challenge Steve in the whole morality side of things." He picked up his burger, ready to take a bite, when he saw T'Challa skewer the burger with his fork, and attempt to cut off a piece. "Tee... Tee, c'mon, man, what the heck are you doing to me?" he groaned, placing his burger down and reaching forward to help him a little. And before anyone contradicts him, yes, this task could've been accomplished very easily without him having to place his hands over T'Challa's to get the better grip on the burger. But he didn't want to do it that way.

"What do you think?" Sam asked eagerly, once he'd returned to his own meal to eat a mouthful of the burger. Much to his delight, T'Challa seemed to enjoy it.

"I must say, it's much better than what I'd expected!"

"Yeah, see? Didn't I tell you? Always trust me, when it comes to food. Sam Wilson won't let you down." He patted his chest proudly and munched on a fry.

That evening, when they left, a tradition was set in place. Not one that would pass on down through the ages, but a tradition nonetheless. Every Saturday, they'd reward their hard work with a double cheeseburger, fries, and water down at Chelsea's Burger Bar in Brooklyn. And two years later, a new tradition was set in place. One that both men were proud to proclaim to the team, to Wakanda, and to any asshole that dared hurt the other.

Two years later, Sam and T'Challa would celebrate their wedding anniversaries in Chelsea's Burger Bar, with nobody but themselves and Nikki. And, as one might imagine, that was a tradition that they were very much happy to keep.


	5. Clip: Clintasha

Authors Note: You guys have no idea how amazing it is to see the views in the morning! 242 views in three days! I never figured I'd get that many views in a million lifetimes! Thank you all a million times, it means a lot to me! So these next two are going to be relatively serious. There's no pattern to this, the prompts rarely work, it took a week to figure out what the hell I'd do with this one! I hope you enjoy it! Again, reviews are lovely and always welcome!

* * *

This is the story of a clip. A very ordinary clip, if you ignore the events that surrounded it. And if you factor in those same events, Clint supposed it was still a pretty normal clip. Perhaps it was the story that went with the clip that gave it all that sappy sentiment. No surprise, really. It was a damn good story, one that he loved telling the kids, and the grandkids, and the honorary nieces and nephews and grand-nieces and grand-nephews...

Hell. He told so many people, whether they asked for it or not, that it became a running joke. Steve was greatly amused by the amount of times Clint had told him the story, to the point that he started to speak in unison with him each time he told the story in public. Fortunately, the archer knew better than to repeat the story when Natasha was around. Otherwise the clip would've been used for its intended purpose on an unintentional victim.

Anyway. The story behind the clip is irrelevant. Made in Chicago, boxed up, sent to SHIELD, and brought out of containment the day that Clint met one exquisite Russian spy. And that, folks, is where our story begins.

"She's good, boss." Clint remarked, walking with Coulson down the hallway as he flicked through the Manila file. Coulson nodded slightly, a grim look in his eyes.

"She certainly is. You'll have to take extra precautions, while you're out there, Agent Barton." He explained.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. This isn't my first rodeo." Clint replied dismissively.

"Trust me, it's gonna feel like it is." Coulson was a clever enough guy, and that was the only reason Clint didn't scoff and walk away from him. "She hasn't killed any of ours yet. But you still need to put her down. She's a dangerous woman, a threat of considerable concern. So... Just don't let your guard down, okay?" He patted his friends shoulder lightly, and they went their separate ways.

Let's push on forward, shall we? Three hours later, Clint was on a rooftop, observing his arrow soar through the air into her thigh with a touch of boredom. Even a little bit of disappointment. The arrow was supposed to knock her down to the ground, stun her, even. It didn't matter, he told himself, but he was lazy, and he didn't particularly relish the idea of chasing her around New York just to put a bullet in her head anyway. It was like ordering a cheeseburger and finding out most of the filling was salad. He was there for the burger, he was gonna eat the damn burger. Why prolong the agony of not tasting that burger?

Damnit. Now he was hungry. And she was still moving. The arrow was now gripped in her hand, and she limped across to the construction site at an impressive speed. Clint suppressed a sigh, and lifted up his bow, jogging down the fire escape quickly. In this case, she was the burger, and this running was the salad. And he didn't fucking order the salad.

When he reached the warehouse, he paused briefly, looking at the ground for any disturbed dust. Nothing. Plenty of dust; no tracks. A frown crossed his features, and he lowered the bow for a moment. A moment that couldn't have been more beautifully timed for his target. The Russian swung down from the rafters and launched her feet into his chest, sending him back into the brick wall. Startled, he lifted his bow to block a roundhouse kick, then caught her in the side with a glancing blow.

She raised her hands, grabbed the bow, and tried to push him back into the wall again, when his foot knocked her injured leg back, and she slid down to the ground. Pulling out his gun, he aimed it at her forehead, removed the safety switch, and waited for a moment.

"Do it." She whispered, staring up at him. He adjusted his grip on the gun.

"I should." he agreed slowly. It wasn't even the fact that she was unarmed and injured. He'd taken down people with more and less than what she had. No. He was unable to pull the trigger for something that ran a little deeper than weapons and wounds.

He would only say it to her and the team, in the future. A future he wasn't aware he had when he holstered his gun and extended his hand to her. The redhead was too surprised to attack, too tired to argue, and simply placed her hand in his. Looping her arm around his neck, he placed his own arm around her to keep her secure, and guided her back to the jet.

The clip in the gun remained between them.

Three years later, they were in Budapest, surrounded by armed men who just continued to flow out of the abandoned buildings that surrounded them. Natasha had run out of bullets, and was scooping up a few of the unused ones that scattered the ground, when Clint passed her his ankle piece. "You take the right, I'll cover."

"What?"

"I'll cover you, just take the gun and head straight for the church! That's an order, Agent Romanoff." he added firmly, pulling out an explosive tipped arrow and loading it up. He was running low, himself. But he hadn't lost a partner in all his time with SHIELD, and he sure as shit wasn't losing one now.

Natasha stared at him for a moment, her green eyes observing him, drinking in every last detail about him. In much the same way that his own eyes had done to her, so frequently, without him even knowing. Without a single word, she turned around, fired the gun, and then sprinted down through the space that the sniper once occupied.

Clint stood up from behind the car, and let his arrow fly through the smoky air, exploding in the middle of the thickest throng of soldiers. Once the initial blast had started to wear off on the few dozen that remained, he loaded up, and shot the nearest threat, a tall, burly man holding an assault rifle. He'd done pretty well, he thought. In the end, he had two normal arrows left, and three targets remaining. His plan was to take care of the biggest guys with the arrows, and engage the other guy in hand-to-hand combat.

Except he ended up shooting the smallest guy through the heart, when he tried to retreat to the church. And the middle guy, who outweighed Clint by ten kilos, easily, was also shot once Clint realised he was the furthest away. Which left Clint alone and unarmed against a mountain of a guy, who held a hunting knife like a fucking toothpick. Just his luck. Clint raised his bow, but a large, heavy boot snapped it in half. The newly unarmed archer threw his broken weapon to the ground, and aimed a punch to his assailants lower gut.

In retrospect, he recollected as he lay on the ground seconds later, perhaps he should've tried talking to the guy first. There was now a large, agonising gash running down his thigh, that ended just above his knee, where the hunting knife was embedded. Strange. He didn't feel anything as he looked up at the oncoming fist. In fact, all he could think of was Natasha. The way she could flash down a hallway full of grown men and render them unconscious in seconds. The way her hair shone in those perfect red curls. The way she smiled with her eyes, not with her soft, rosebud lips-

Immediately, a gunshot rang out through the air, and the fist dropped like a stone, the assailant slamming into the ground beside Clint.

"Jesus!" he groaned, pushing himself up against the car. Natasha was standing a few feet away from him, the gun pointing at his head. Clint was about to fight back, about to disarm her and restrain her by any means necessary. Then he stopped. He was injured, badly injured, and God only knew how many more of those bastards were hiding nearby. They were alone in Budapest, and he'd only slow her down. "Do it." he whispered.

"I should." Natasha held the gun for a moment longer, then replaced the safety switch. This time, the corner of her lips twitched upwards into a faint, half smile, and her soft hand moved out to help him up. Once he was standing against the car, she wedged her shoulder underneath his arm, and took most of his weight, one arm locked around his waist.

The clip held only three more bullets.

Every good story has a third act. And although this story might not be very good, it certainly has a third act. In New York, five years later, each one filled with dates and unspoken love, the clip was nearly stocked into a spare magazine that Clint flat out refused to give Natasha. The three bullets had spent hours on his work bench, and right at that moment, they were an absolute last resort. The words they held were too precious to end up in some aliens head.

"Fore!" Natasha yelled. He swiftly hit the deck, and she shot the Chitarii behind him, before using Clint's shoulder as a step up to the roof of the car they were taking cover behind. Withdrawing both guns, she emptied the two clips into the fresh throng of Chitarii that crowded around them. When she turned around to request another clip, she was puzzled to find Clint was still on the ground. Only this time, he was kneeling proposal style, and passed her the three bullets with a little grin. There, on the golden surfaces of each bullet, were three words.

* * *

Natasha, marry me?

* * *

"Do it." he remarked with a slightly hopeful smile.

"I should." she replied cheekily, a little grin blossoming on her cheeks. And guess what, ladies and gentlemen?

She did.


	6. Hi, readers! (Authors Note)

Hi, readers!

Hello, everyone! I just want to thank you all for reading so far, 389 views isn't a place I ever thought I'd reach! So thank you all so much, from the bottom of my heart, for being so kind and caring! You all rock!

However, there's a reason for this impromptu note. I feel like I'm writing an awful lot of stuff that I myself am interested in. And that bothers me. Because if I continue down that street, I feel as if you wonderful people will step back, and refuse to read anymore of my stuff. Selfish, I know.

I digress! I have a selection of one word prompts below, all of which will be coming up in the next ninety five chapters. If it isn't too much bother, I'd really appreciate it if ye would drop a review/private message stating which pairings (Preferrably in the MCU) you'd like to see!

Go WILD! Don't stick with the basics if you don't ship them! If you're worried about how your ship will be addressed, I don't judge! (Very hard to judge anyone in this fandom. Impossible, really!)

So, in conclusion, drop a review if you'd like to see any changes in my writing. If that means grammar, spelling, punctuation, or just pairings, scenarios, and fluff/angst, go on ahead! Listed below are a selection of one word prompts. Thank you for reading!

"Name." - {INSERT PAIRING NAME}

"Railroad." - {INSERT PAIRING NAME}

"Flower." - {INSERT PAIRING NAME}

"Crime." - {INSERT PAIRING NAME}

"Coin." - {INSERT PAIRING NAME}

Thank you all for reading! Have a wonderful day!


	7. Bread: Claura

Authors note: *happy tears* 389 views! You guys are fantastic, you know that? I never imagined my stuff would get this much attention, maybe fifty views, at most? God, you're wonderful people! Okay, so I found a few other one word prompt sheets, so chances are, once this is all over, I'll be subjecting you all to even more one shots. I'm sorry! If anyone has any ships they'd love to see in here, or any situations (for example, yesterday I displayed what I thought happened in Budapest) that they'd like to see in a one shot, please let me know via private message, or review!

* * *

Clint was the kind of guy who was 100% less likely to do something if they were told by someone else to do it. On good days, which were admittedly plentiful, Laura called it sexy and rebellious. On not so good days, which were fortunately a minority, she found it stubborn and ignorant. Clint was eternally grateful for many things in his life, and Laura was certainly one of them.

But I mentioned the decreased likelihood of him acting on a request that was already on his mind for a reason. After all, he didn't receive the name Hawkeye for nothing. He was an incredibly observant man, and as a result of his perception, Clint was naturally inclined to notice and acknowledge tasks that needed to be done.

In this case, he was acutely aware of the rapidly diminishing amount of bread in the farmhouse. Not that he was surprised; they had three kids now, and Nathaniel was at that stage of his life where slices of bread soaked in warm milk was a delicacy. There were moments in his life where he wondered what Pietro would think if he could see his infant namesake. He paused in his current task, which happened to be packing his bag for a mission in Kiev.

It had been almost a year since everything happened in Sokovia. Wanda had started visiting them a lot lately, and that was pretty fantastic, he figured. Over the months, she'd started smiling more, her eyes shining, her laughs a little less polite and more merry. He was glad, personally. Pietro would've been proud of her. He just didn't know how to tell her that. Nor how to tell her that he saw her as a second daughter.

"Honey?" Laura walked into the room quietly, and wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, resting her cheek against his back. He smiled faintly, and returned to the present moment.

"Yeah, babe?" he asked, turning slightly and resting his hands on her wrists. She absently traced her fingers under his shirt, her light, cool touch dancing over the new skin that covered his old injury.

"You think you could get some bread while you're gone?" she asked softly. Part of his brain ticked slightly, and he nodded whilst turning around to fold her into a warm, protective hug.

"Sure, yeah." he agreed nonchalantly. "I'll be home by Sunday, sweetie, I promise."

"Yeah, I know." She replied, poking his side good naturedly. "Nat will bring you back if it kills her."

"Which it won't." He rolled his eyes light-heartedly. "I swear, I don't know what the hell she puts into her coffee, but I want some."

"She's Russian." She reminded him with a grin. "Comes with the territory. Hey, and while you're gone, would you mind-"

"Inviting her to Lila's party? Yeah, sweetie, I got it." He moved to lift up his bag, then looked at her for a moment, drinking in her radiant smile, the way her face lit up whenever they talked about the kids, and the undeniable curve in her stomach. Three months along. Nat had called dibs on the name for a baby girl, and Clint was planning on knitting the team back together with his suggestion for the baby boys name. Laura didn't mind. She chose the middle names, and besides, the first names were always excellent.

(She certainly didn't drop hints to Natasha, whenever there was one she didn't like, over cups of coffee.)

"I'll be back before you know it." He gently kissed her forehead, then the tip of her nose, and his strong, calloused hands cupped her angelic face gently as he leaned in and kissed her lovingly on the lips. Her eyes fluttered closed the moment their lips brushed together, and her hands rested on his shoulders for a moment.

"I'll be waiting." She replied, a little breathlessly after they broke apart. As his family joined him on the porch and waved goodbye, Clint started the engine and waved, a touch tearful himself as he drove away. It was Friday. He was gonna be home in two days. And everything would be fine.

Sunday came and went. Laura waited by the kitchen table, drinking cup after cup of decaffeinated coffee, trying to put on a brave face for the kids. This wasn't the first time it had happened, by any means. But I think we're all familiar with the sinking sensation in ones stomach when the first dark, silky strand of doubt and fear weaves into the mind, coiling around the hope and light you cherished, and drowning them out in a veil of uncertainty.

The next morning, the kids were supposed to have gone into school. But they'd stayed awake the entire night before, waiting for their daddy to come home. All aside from Nathaniel, who was too young to have fully picked up on the growing unease within the Barton's Farmhouse. So she let them stay at home. Cooper helped her bake some bread, Lila stared out the window, waiting patiently for Clint to come home. Laura watched her for a moment, sadly, and contemplated bringing Lila into the kitchen. Busy hands and all those stupid sayings that her own mother came up with. But she didn't.

Friday arrived, and Laura was running on fumes. Cooper was the only reason she'd still been able to walk, at this stage. He made sure she was eating plenty of food, for her and the baby, kept her hydrated, and whenever she was on the sofa, staring at her cell phone, he gently covered her with a blanket. He was growing up so fast... Laura felt like a terrible mother, for not being able to do this for him. For Lila, for Nathaniel. That was emher/em job. Everything she thought, or believed, that didn't matter. She was their goddamn _mother_.

But the phone wouldn't ring. It had been a week. Seven whole days. She should've been sleeping in Clint's arms five days ago, and now, everytime she looked at their bed, she had to leave the room and find a way of working off her nervous energy. But after a week, hope begins to fail you. Laura couldn't comprehend why the hell SHIELD hadn't called her yet, to give the stupid, mandatory, yet confirming speech about how they were terribly sorry to inform her, but on his final mission, her husband, Agent Clint Barton, had been killed in action...

She didn't want that damn phone call. Of course not. But it would confirm all these nauseating doubts she had. All she could see whenever she closed her eyes was Clint being tortured, Clint lying with a bulletwound in his head, beside Natasha, Clint dying in a fiery explosion... Kiev wasn't normally that dangerous. But this was Hydra. They destroyed, they slunk into every country like an insidious plague, and tore every shred of decency and humanity down to the ground.

By the second week, Laura had taken to sitting with Lila by the window. Unlike her, Lila hadn't lost hope. The window box was covered with pictures of the family, each one holding a woman, labelled as Mommy. Mommy had a round belly, which was labelled Natty/James. The joke there, was that if the entire team came by to visit, Rhodes and Bucky would argue over who the baby was named after. The memory made her smile, and Laura ran her fingers through Lila's ponytail gently.

But her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a car engine, drawing closer and closer up the lane. Lila sat up straight, eyes wide with curiosity, and instantly bolted off the window seat. Cooper clearly wanted to follow suit, but, ever the gentleman, came over to help his mother off the seat. Once they were outside, the owner of the noise pulled up. A big, intimidating black SUV, speckled with dust and dirt. Cooper was holding Nathaniel, and was under no obligation to run out to the car, unlike Lila, who felt she was entitled to.

Laura quickly stopped Lila, and pulled her back, her hands gripping her shoulders. She didn't cry. She would not cry in front of these men. But the second the door open, she felt her face crumple, and everything good she'd been hoping for began to fade. Please god, she prayed. Let it be Nat. Nat was good with these things, and the kids knew her, and maybe then they could plan for the coming weeks. When she saw the familiar redhead exit the car, and walk up the lane to them, she relaxed slightly, and allowed Lila to run up to her Aunty Nat.

"Is he-" Oh Jesus. "Nat, is Clint, Clint, is he... Is he d-"

"No." Natasha replied softly, shaking her head. "He's okay, he's alive, and he's safe. Alright? I told you I'd keep him safe." She squeezed her hand gently, and then, like a wonderful, glorious beacon, guided them all into the car, and drove them over to the hospital where Clint was currently residing.

This wasn't her first time in a hospital to visit Clint. The nurses nodded slightly when they saw her, and Laura's normal fond exasperation and concerns over getting him a gift were quashed by her overwhelming relief that Clint was still alive. The second they reached the emergency ward, she weaved around a food trolley, and dashed down the aisle, searching for his name. M. Carter, L. Beaumont... C. Barton. She whipped the curtains open, and rushed into the room. Clint was lying in the bed, wearing a gown, and his face lit up when he saw her.

"Laura! Laura, baby! Oh my god-" Before he could continue, Laura had flung her arms around his neck, and his arms instantly went around her waist, holding her close as she trembled and cried in his arms.

Once they were both sitting down, and Nat had taken the kids to get some hot chocolate, she held his hands with tender affection, as he gazed at her for what felt like hours, but could only have been minutes. Shame. He would've gladly stared at her for all his remaining years.

"I got the bread." He remarked suddenly. Her peaceful, serene expression was clouded with confusion, and she sat forward on the seat.

"What?"

"The bread. There was this neat little bakery that made bread that was baked specially for kids. It's in the locker." He explained earnestly. She glanced surreptitiously at the morphine drip in his arm. The reason he was in here was because he'd been shot in the ribcage by a rogue bullet, and so the morphine was being used liberally.

"Baby, if you got shot trying to grab some bread, I swear to god..."

"I love you..."

"Clint?" She tried to sound stern.

"You're a wonderful wifey."

"Jesus, did you actually get shot in the ribs trying to get us some bread?!"

"And you're so pretty..."

"Holy... Clint, you're lucky you're hot."

"I am? Hey! Nurse! She called me hot!"


	8. Fish: Romanogers

Authors Note: You know what's amazing? Like, jaw droppingly awesome? When you get back home from a pretty rough day, and find 746 views on your work! Lights up my whole day! Okay, so this one is dedicated to my fabulously funny friends Kels and Hannah, without whom I wouldn't be the mad Irish eejit that I am today! I hope you all enjoy it, prompts are always welcome! I love you all, and I hope you all have a wonderful day!

* * *

Saturday night was take-out night. End of discussion. It was a tradition in the tower, and had continued in the new base. But, as with all traditions, there was bound to be conflict. The same way it's debated which family gets to host Christmas dinner, at the base, it was a bitterly fought war as to which take-out they'd get for dinner. It didn't help matters that Thor and Pietro would end up eating all their own food, then most of the leftovers that weren't snatched quickly enough by the remaining members.

Inevitably, something had to be done. Feeding ten people, as well as Jane, the Barton's, Darcy... There were too many people to be fed off the scraps that Thor and Pietro left behind.

So, when the opportunity arose, Steve ended up taking it, without thinking of what the others might do, think, or say. And they had plenty to say on the mattEr, too.

"Pizza." Wanda suggested at their weekly take-out discussion.

"Nah, we had that last week. What about Chinese food?" Clint asked.

"Screw that, I just spent a damn week in China. I want somethin' greasy. How about burgers from Chelsea's?" Sam asked.

* * *

"I'm with Sam on that one." Tony agreed.

"I'd be interested in eating Chinese food." Vision voiced his opinion.

"Oh my god, you guys are ridiculous." Rhodes was shaking his head with notable exasperation. Steve glanced up at him, then over to Natasha, who regarded Rhodes with a withering gaze over the Thai menu. His sky blue gaze swiftly moved to the oblivious lieutenant, and he stifled a laugh. "We do this every damn week, and-"

"Steve doesn't like that word, Rhodie." Tony replied automatically. Steve shot him a faintly amused glare.

"You guys realise that the Internet went crazy with that, right? There's all these me-me's..."

"Memes." The group corrected him collectively.

"Those too! I blame Peter." Steve nodded emphatically.

"How come I always get the blame?" Peter protested.

"Because you're a young hooligan, Pete." Sam pretended to croak. That earned him a little grin from Pietro and Tony.

"We still haven't decided on what to eat. Does that sushi place deliver?" Natasha asked, dropping the menu onto the stack. It wobbled precariously, threatening to send the glossy menus cascading across the counter.

"Nah. Not to us. Not after last time." Peter reminded her. Tony and Thor had gotten drunk and ended up ordering fifty portions of every sushi item listed on both of the menus. Yes. You read that correctly. They ordered from two different sushi bars in the area, and then, when the delivery men arrived, Tony ended up bellowing out the lyrics of "The Final Countdown" while Thor tried to strum Mjolnir like a guitar.

"Fine. I'll go over and eat there." She turned around and grabbed her jacket from the coat hanger. Steve didn't take too long to make a decision.

"I'll go with you." The entire team stopped to give him a variety of looks. Natasha was already out the door, and as Steve shrugged his leather jacket on, Rhodes was the first to speak up.

"She's gonna eat you up, man." he informed the good captain.

"Use protection." Thor remarked. For a moment, he was in the limelight, to which the Asgardian simply responded, "Against him being eaten."

"That's not-" Tony stopped himself when he realised how long that discussion would take. "Jeez, Steve. The last guy she knocked down ended up crying into his pillow for days."

"Knocked down? Tony, it's just a meal between friends." Steve tried to roll his eyes, but a knowing glance from Peter made him stop.

"You're in the friend zone."

"That's right." Sam clicked his fingers in Peter's direction. "You, my good friend, have been friend zoned."

"Jeez... You guys really need to stop watching TV. It's just sushi." Steve made his way to the door, knowing that he'd have to run to keep up with her at this rate.

"Man, you don't even know what sushi is!" Sam yelled after him.

* * *

As it turns out, Captain Rogers certainly did know what sushi was. Once he'd caught up with Natasha at the door, the hostess broke into a bright smile, bowed, and spoke in rapid-fire Japanese to the chefs behind the counter. Steve felt a little flustered, but Natasha assuaged his fears with a raised eyebrow.

"You're a regular here, Cap?"

"Only place that serves sushi without making me feel like an imposter." he explained sheepishly.

"They sure seem to admire you." she remarked, leading him to a table.

"Akira is friendly. Plus, I usually end up over-tipping."

"Huh. No surprise there." she replied smoothly, opening a menu and handing it to him. Steve declined it.

"I always get the salmon rolls and wasabi."

"Wasabi. Gee, Cap, you're full of surprises today." She cast a cursory glance down the list of Japanese meals, then closed the menu just as Akira arrived to take their order. She didn't have to ask Steve; instead, she extended her hand to his menu questioningly, and he nodded with a little smile.

"Good, captain!" she beamed, pronouncing it cap-tahn rather than the usually cap-ten that he was so accustomed to hearing. "Very good! And for the lady?" Akira looked over to Natasha eagerly, her sleek ponytail forming a uniform black line that ended just above her shirt collar.

"The unagi, please." Natasha replied politely. Watching Akira leave, she returned her attention to Steve, who was pouring out two glasses of water. "Did you do any tours in Japan?"

"No. Just Germany, a few in Poland... I think I would've been sent to Japan, eventually. If I hadn't gone down in the jet."

"You should ask Stark some time. He has a bunch of partners there, Pepper used to talk to them all the time."

"You were friends with Pepper?" he asked, surprised. They were both powerful women, sure, but Pepper still seemed completely different to Natasha.

"I worked with her, Cap. When I was undercover in the enterprises." she corrected him. "She wouldn't let me talk to them unless she was there with me."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a troublesome slut."

"She said that?"

"That's how I wanted her to see me." Natasha couldn't hold back the smile. "Stark loved attention back then. It's changed now. But she still doesn't like me."

"I'm sorry." Steve felt bad for her. One time he made the mistake of calling her Virginia, and Pepper hadn't spoken to him for two days. Tony eventually built a bridge by explaining to Pepper that Steve hadn't done it intentionally, and warned Steve against making the mistake in the future.

"Why? I'm relieved, personally. I hated working for her." she sat up a little straighter as their food arrived, and then picked up her chopsticks. Steve simply used the wooden fork beneath the plate.

"It's a real shame they broke up." Steve remarked, a hint of sadness in his voice as he skewered an unsuspecting salmon roll.

"Don't worry about it. She's with Happy, and Clint and I are planning on setting him up with someone, soon."

"Huh." he laughed once, softly.

"What about you?" she asked, removing an eel roll from the plate and letting it hover near her lips.

"Sorry?" he replied, bemused.

"Well, Sharon went to London, she gave you a letter. You're on the market again. Any ladies back at base catching your eye?"

"One. But I'm not pinning my hopes on her. Too much history, I guess."

"Were you friend zoned?" she raised an eyebrow, a flash of a cheeky smile on her lips. Steve went bright red, and tried to come up with a response. Had she heard that discussion? Jeez... She could have, it wasn't beyond comprehension. Was it? But before he could stammer out anything close to a syllable, Natasha had returned her attention to her meal, swallowing the eel roll and dunking another one into the soy sauce.

"You want some wasabi?" he asked suddenly. Akira and the chefs were watching from their perch, slightly amused by their regular patrons fumbling attempts at conversation.

"Sure." Natasha agreed easily, refilling her glass with water.

"Y'know, Tony and I got sushi once. We both got the wasabi, and the last person to take a drink of water-"

"Got to dare the other person to do whatever they wanted. Yeah, I know. He tried to get me to do it once." she grinned. "Who won?"

"Tony."

"What'd he make you do?" she asked curiously.

"Well... Uh, it's pretty dumb, actually, but I had to, er..." he cleared his throat, blushing scarlet. "I had to sing my old theme song everytime I answered the phone for a week."

"Wow." Her grin grew bigger, and he couldn't help but smile back, amazed by the rarity and beauty of her natural, genuine smile.

"Yeah, I know." he chuckled slightly, raising his eyebrows as he divided the portion of wasabi in half. "You wanna give it a try?"

"Okay... And the winner gets to make the loser do whatever they want."

"Mhm."

"Great." she replied coolly. Once they had the wasabi balanced on their forks, Steve counted backwards from three. All the while, he couldn't help but wonder what he'd do if he won. Probably make her download that song on her phone or something. The song that Tony always played while she was in his lab. It was lame, but he didn't have the guts to do anything else. On zero, all his thoughts of what he'd do were replaced by the blinding, eye watering heat of the wasabi, and the view of one stunning Russian right in front of him.

Five seconds passed. Steve was struggling, and could already feel the heat rushing to his cheeks. Natasha seemed perfectly at ease, as if the small scoop of green dynamite in her mouth was simply another stick of chewing gum. Ten seconds. Steve's face was going red, and his throat felt as if there were hot needles trying to push out of his chest through his oesophagus. Natasha scarcely batted an eyelid. Twenty seconds. The second he felt a tear threaten to brim in his eye, Steve groaned inwardly and grabbed his water, slugging it back frantically.

Natasha was laughing, a real, bright, happy laugh that erupted from her mouth and filled the air like bubbles filled with a joyous melody. As she passed over her own glass, he drank it down, albeit slower than he had the first time. When he'd lowered the glass, exhaling slowly, she tilted her head to one side innocently. "I win?"

"You win." he agreed. Way to go, Steve. Smooth move. He just hoped Natasha wouldn't tell Tony about this- Any and all thoughts of returning home to Tony's raucous laughter were replaced by the sensation of her lips against his. Her eyes were closed, one hand holding his shirt collar, the other resting on the table. Steve allowed his eyes to flutter shut, and opened his mouth slightly. The coolness of his mouth battled briefly against the heat in hers, before blending to form a comfortable balance. And then the kiss ended, and he felt suddenly foolish. "I... I'm sorry, if I did something-"

"No. No, you didn't do anything wrong. Did I do something wrong?" She asked, a little confused.

"No! God, no... You've no idea how long..."

"Oh, trust me. I have a pretty good idea." she assured him.

From that day forth, a word was added to the list of food-related-sex-words that Steve had gathered over the years. In the same way that fondue once meant sex to him and Peggy, and strawberries had once meant no sex for Tony and Pepper, the word wasabi became synonymous with alone time for Steve and Natasha. And as their relationship blossomed into something real and palpable for the both of them, one thing had to be sure.

The Avengers seriously needed to stop associating food with sex.


	9. Race: SamxBucky (Little smut implied)

**Authors note** : 919 views! *breathes heavily* You guys! Okay, this little nugget is dedicated to my wonderful friend, Laura! I hope I did it justice, and my apologies if this seems extremely short. I'm going to be brutally honest with you guys. *takes off hat and sits down quietly* I do not ship Sam and Bucky. I mean, I do, but not in this way. They're my BroTP, of course. But I don't see them as being romantically involved. However! I'm very much certain that that will change! Review time! Ahhh!

 **SLYNNR:** Absolutely! Thank you so much! There's a good hundred words in the list of prompts, so there's plenty more to come with regards one-shots! As for Tony, I have a little thing in mind for him! Would you like to see any particular ships in this collection?

Reviews welcome, as always! I'm graduating tomorrow, so chances are I might be a little late with the posts, but I might stay awake and write up the next chapter!

* * *

Sam was real fucking close to smacking Bucky. And not in a kinky way, either. For the past two hours, all he'd heard was Bucky snickering on the bench and trying to stifle it with his hand, to no avail. Everytime Sam's foot hit the treadmill, his jaw clenched, and he tried to slam each step down harder to drown out the laughter of his boyfriend. Natasha returned from the showers in time to see Sam switch off the treadmill and hurl his sneaker at Bucky. This, of course, only encouraged further laughter.

"I told you to ask me." She reminded him. Sam simply scowled.

Yeah, she'd told him. So had Tony, Rhodes, Thor, and Pietro. Although, the latter was never going to be an option. Sam had made the grim decision to compete against Steve in a charity race. They'd raised a tonne of money, and Central Park was promised to be filled with stalls and performances on the day of the race. So, of course, Pietro was immediately crossed off the list.

Tony was simply a pain in the ass. A good friend, sure, but Sam had gone through enough of being the punchline to his jokes. Even if it had faded. Besides, Tony used his suit for speed. As did Rhodes.

Natasha was quick. Absolutely. Hell, he still remembered trying to keep up with her in the training circuit the other day. But she was going out with Steve now. And he didn't put it past her to jokingly give him bad tips before the race. So she was gone.

Thor? As Bucky so eloquently put it, "Baby, he's a fucking GOD!" Sam had to admit, he had a point. And so, Sam was left with Vision (who, he realised, rarely ever ran) Wanda (much like her boyfriend) Peter (he used webs to get around) and finally Bucky. Only now, he was beginning to understand. Never agree to such an immediate response.

This was day two of his intensive training course. Day one had been spent improving his stamina. In other words, intermittent bursts of running on the treadmill and vigorous love-making in the room he shared with Bucky. Bucky awarded him an A-. Apparently, gasping in the bedroom at this stage in the relationship was unnecessary and marks needed to be deducted.

Day two was the actual speed. And when Sam had walked down in a running suit he'd borrowed from Pietro, Bucky had cracked up laughing for a full ten minutes, before finally subsiding into little giggles as he kissed Sam lightly on the that Sam was running on the treadmill, Bucky was growing restless, no longer satisfied with the occasional chuckles provided from the bench. "How about your starting stance?" he wanted to know.

"My what?!" Sam panted incredulously. Bucky pushed himself off the bench and walked over to him, before neatly turning the treadmill off and waiting for Sam to slow to a stop.

"The way you stand before you start running." he explained above the receding puffs of air that Sam produced. "Show me."

"Jesus..." Sam groaned. Bucky blinked at him, and he reluctantly crouched down, his fingertips steadying him on the springy floors, one leg bent, the other straightened behind him.

"You're telling me you can run from that position?" Bucky asked.

"I can do plenty of things from this position!" he protested. A wicked grin formed on the silver armed veteran.

"Oh, trust me, I know." he winked. Sam aimed a shove at him, and ended up lying on his back, having toppled from his already precarious position. Bucky was cackling hysterically at his boyfriends misfortune, and ended up collapsing against the treadmill, tears of laughter rolling down his face.

"Asshole." Sam huffed good naturedly. Bucky wiped the tears from his eyes and tried to make amends.

"C'mon!" he protested. "You know I was only messin' around!"

"Peter does a damn blog about us! You think he's above posting that on the Internet? He ain't!" Sam pointed out aggressively. Bucky crawled forward and lightly cupped Sam's face in his hands. Sam felt his heart flutter, and tried his best to ignore it.

"I'll sort Peter out, I promise you." he assured him solemnly.

"The kid can stop your metal arm, Buck. I'm pretty sure he'd sort you out, first."

"Screw you."

"I love you too." Sam kissed him on the mouth quickly. Bucky rolled his eyes, but the blush in his cheeks was notable. "Now, can you please help me win this damn race?"

"It's not even possible." Bucky reminded him.

"So? At least I can say that I tried." he shrugged. A ghost of a smile remained on Bucky's features, and he helped him to his feet, before switching the treadmill on. Sam hopped on, and started running again.

That night, as they laid together in bed, sleepy and content, Sam allowed himself to become sentimental for a moment. He no longer gave a damn if he won the race or not. In the end, the money was being raised, and while it would be great and all to beat Steve, he became very aware. He'd already won in life. He'd won the moment he first laid eyes upon Bucky. And guess what, folks? On the day of the charity race...

Steve won. By twenty minutes. Sam was unimpressed until Bucky gave him a big kiss and made it worth his while later that night with beer and a comedy film.

Peter also posted about Sam and Bucky on his blog later that week. But he felt massively uncomfortable when it came to the details, so it didn't exactly make much of a difference to the couple in the grand scheme of things. Bucky did, however, make a subtle threat to break Peter's camera if he tried to post anything like that again.

Peter had to buy a new camera the following week after taking a picture of the two enjoying a candle-lit dinner.


	10. Poor: Stucky

Authors Note: I started crying when I saw 1,003 views! I didn't think my stuff was any good! I'm not sure if 1,003 seems like an awful lot to those of you who've become used to this site, but to me, it's 1,003 more than I was ever expecting. Thank you all so much! Review time!  
SLYNNR: I haven't actually seen AoS! *uses the chapter as a shield against the shock and horror of any readers* But! I am nothing if not persistent! I'll get around to writing up that one shot, hopefully that will be chapter thirteen! I hope it pleases you!  
Again, my apologies for the last chapter. And for this! This is more of what I think of Stucky, and an overall synopsis, or whatever you like to call it! I'm sorry for not posting yesterday, graduation was insane! I hope you all have a wonderful day/night, depending on where you are!

* * *

They'd fallen asleep curled up together in front of the fireplace. Usually it was Steve snuggled up against Bucky's chest, out of habit more than anything else. Long gone nights, before the war, when Steve was overcoming an asthma attack, or a coughing fit, and Bucky's feelings for him were a mess of emotion, conflicting, boiling over as his fear of being ostracised and his rapidly growing love for Steve battled for dominance. Back then, when society was a prejudiced fuckfest, those nights were both a solace and a curse.

They didn't have much money. Hardly any, really. Scarcely enough to survive, let alone care for someone with the extensive list of maladies that Steve had. But they made do. Sure, they went to bed hungry a few times. But who didn't? That was the norm back then. After all, the world was looking on as a war spun itself into history. A little hunger wasn't a surprising occurrence.

Going to sleep hungry these days was supposedly something the rich folk did, to keep the skinny people looking as pretty as possible on those fucked up crash diets. Bucky hated them. So did Steve. In Steve's humble opinion, there was no point in trying to lose dangerous amounts of weight to make someone love you. On the tiny, practically invisible chance that it worked, your body was going to be running on fumes, your muscle being pulled away, giving you less time to spend with your loved ones.

That wasn't a problem they had anymore. Before the war, maybe. When time was less abundant, and the looming threat of war promised to take Bucky away from Steve. They used to joke about it, on lighter days, how it took the whole world being at war to tear them apart from one another. But most days were dark, filled with a gloomy silence. With Steve gently caressing Bucky's jaw, and Bucky quietly stroking Steve's hair back.

Steve was always a damn good artist. Back at his place, there were scraps of whitewashed newspapers, covered in doodles, sketches of Bucky, sketches of the streets. They were enchanting to watch. To see how every line moved up, swooping over the curves, flowing to create pictures that most artists could only dream of. They were always running out of something. Time. Money. Food. But never hope. Not once did they lose hope.

"You should sell 'em." Bucky remarked one day, lying back on the sofa as Steve sipped the thin broth. "The sketches. Some fat cat'll pay top dollar for those."

"What, the naked pictures of you?" Steve had chuckled.

"I'm a very handsome guy, Stevie. All the broads tell me. And you." he added with a little wink.

Nobody told him that when he was with Hydra. It would've been hilarious if they did, but they didn't. Instead, they tortured him, trained him. Forced him into a mold that he didn't want to change into. Took him from Steve, and, as a final kick up the ass, removed his fucking memories of him. Then, they buried all those cherished memories so far down that it took almost killing him to bring them back.

Even when things had been their darkest. When Steve had been forced to choose between him and Tony. Between the life he wanted and the life he needed. It had always been them. Together. To the end of the line.

When Tony finally allowed them back, Steve had taken three months to decide, even though Bucky insisted it was okay. They'd been poorer in friends than in material possessions. Steve's shield was gone, Bucky's arm was returned to its metal form, and they weren't able to talk to anyone other than T'Challa, who, despite it all, stood in their corner and provided invaluable aid.

Three months of debating, pacing, packing and unpacking had passed. And then, at long last, Steve and Bucky returned to New York City, walked to Manhattan, and returned to the base. Wanda and Sam had welcomed them back with open arms. Tony had taken more time. But once the scotch bottles were taken away, and intense conversations had passed, they'd returned to something that resembled normalcy. They had a room. Their friends slowly, but surely, returned to them, tentatively moving Bucky into their agendas, giving him time to adjust, to move.

Steve eventually got his shield back, after heavy negotiations with Agent Ross. After receiving a few journals from Bruce, however, the dots that linked him to Bruce's past were connected, and all lines of communication between him and the team were severed. Tony tweaked the Accords drastically, against all advice, and then finally Steve conceded to them, returning to the team as Captain America.

And while Bucky flat out refused to keep his title of the Winter Soldier, Peter tentatively warmed to the veteran, and after a while, they came to the conclusion of a new name for him. The Rainbow Soldier. When Bucky was later informed the relevance of the rainbow, he cherished the name, and went to all the marches and celebrations held for LGBT people.

But I suppose that's not why we're here, is it? No. The most important part is that, every night, they went to bed, holding one another. When the nightmares came, and the flashbacks struck with frightening ferocity, they clung to one another, pulling from reserves of strength and courage that neither of them were familiar with.

It didn't matter a damn about money, wealth, or material possessions. Bucky had Steve, and Steve had Bucky, no matter what.

To the end of the line.


	11. Rich: IronWidow

Authors note: I'm so, so, so sorry for the unannounced hiatus! Oh my god, the exams were like mini grenades being hurled at me, and the study was essentially the amount of time it took to defuse those awful exams. But I'm here now! Again, reviews are always welcomed, as are prompts! Hope you're all having a smashing day!

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Tony had it all, according to the tabloids. Charm, money, his pick of women, friends, fans, enemies, his self-declared "devilishly handsome, good looks" and a name that refused to stay out of the papers. What he didn't have, was a decent back-up plan whenever he actually needed one.

Take, for example, his latest mission in Texas. Gerard Stain had reared his ugly, smug, shit-eating head, and was arranging numerous arms deals at his estate. Gerard Stain was an ugly son of a bitch, according to Tony. Short, squat, with a breath that reeked like a butchers shop and a trash can. His hair reminded the group of oily spaghetti, slick, shiny, and revolting. The realisation that the guy could actually deal weapons of mass destruction was both a surprise and a cause for concern. This wasn't his first rodeo if he was selling the high quality weapons he claimed to be providing.

While Tony was still splashed across the tabloids, either on the front page, or the centre pages, he still had a good hold on some of his former partners in the weaponry business. And so, him showing up wouldn't raise many red flags. At least, not to someone as easily-flattered as Stain. So he was immediately on the list to go in. And, as he pointed out, the only thing that interested Stain and his clients more than a good gun, was an equally good pair of boobs.

Clint made the painful error of glancing over to Natasha.

Once she'd reminded him of the pain involved in giving her those looks, she agreed to go with Tony. The latter was begrudging in his acceptance of this simple fact. But it made the most sense.

Nobody had seen Agent Hill in weeks. Pepper was an immediate no, for obvious reasons. Wanda refused on the basis that her powers would pose an issue. Her protectiveness over the team had proven to trigger her powers in less-than-discreet ways. Laura was a mother, Sharon was in the CIA, and Jane wasn't remotely interested in the field. So, Natasha was the only viable choice, to his great annoyance.

Three hours into the evening, Tony was on his second scotch on the rocks. Natasha was in the ladies room. She'd shown up wearing a dark green floor length cocktail dress, showing off her long, taut legs, her creamy skin, her curvy figure... He was really pulling at all his anger to remind him that he hated her. Even though he didn't.

Some angry, ugly part of him hated her for letting Bucky and Steve walk, even when he would've done the same in her position. Without the knowledge that Bucky had killed his parents, of course. Then again, that knowledge appeared to be dictating quite a few of his relationships, these days.

"The blonde broad is smoking hot, huh?" The bartender muttered to him in a low, half amused tone. Tony didn't even need to turn around. He knew who it was. Natasha had elected to wear a blonde wig to throw off any suspicions as to her identity. He hadn't expected it to work, but then again, everyone here was drunk off their asses.

"Yup." he grouched, slugging back half his drink in one go. The bartender grinned, and Tony looked up at him with a little frown.

"She turn you down, man?"

"What? No!" Tony snapped. The lean man behind the bar raised his hands in self defence, then returned to drying the cocktail glass in his hand. Tony finished his drink, hoping the bitter scotch would bring him around. Since his first drink, he'd been groggy, wincing at loud noises, bright lights... Plenty of both around here, to his annoyance. It pissed him off; Tony had always seen himself as well able to hold his booze.

Natasha suddenly swung into the stool beside him, offering a little smirk to the bartender. Her dark haired friend scowled, and tried to pick the ice up from inside his glass. She watched him impatiently for a few moments, as the ice continued to slip out of his grasp, before finally tipping the ice into the napkin and handing it to him. "I figured you'd be able to hold your scotch a little better than that, Stark."

"Shaddup, Romanoff." he grumbled, shoving the cold cloth on his forehead. It was refreshing, jarring in its coldness, but only served to remind him of how shitty he felt. Her hand reached out and scooped up the glass, her analytical gaze swiping across the dregs inside.

"Did you have a drink before this?" she asked. He looked at her with more than a touch of exasperation. Of course he'd had another drink. He kinda needed the Dutch fucking courage to just sit there and watch her dance and laugh with all those other guys, not to run up and punch them in the face for looking her up and down. "Jesus, you're an idiot." she sighed.

"For what? Getting a drink at a bar?"

"No. For not recognising that the drink was spiked." Natasha whispered into his ear, her lips brushing off the skin below his lobe. He wondered, briefly, if she was picking up on how his heartrate had just spiked at the contact.

"How d'you know its spiked?" He asked bleakly. She pressed a hand into his shoulder and nudged him. He leaned to one side, and had to grab the counter for support. Two small, strong hands moved onto his shoulders, and pulled him upright, so his dark brown eyes could look right into her green gaze. Jesus. He felt his body move, and the bartender looked up, just enough for them to see the glint of the barrel of a gun in his waistband.

"Come on, Mr. Stark." Natasha was speaking, and he tried to control himself accordingly, looking at her blearily. Her voice had been flirty, not unlike the giggly, suggestive tones used by all the girls he used to spend fleeting nights with. But it was her. It was Natasha. He wasn't about to do that, and even if he tried, he was pretty sure he wouldn't ever be heard from again if he did.

"My place or yours?" He responded, his words slurring slightly. Shit. Shit shit shit. That fucking bartender... Tony suppressed a sigh, blinked twice, then tried to smirk a little at her. It was a slow, arduous process. At first, Natasha was concerned that he may have been having a stroke.

"Whichever is closest..." she bit her lower lip with a coy grin. He felt pinpricks of sweat on his brow, and for a moment, Tony panicked. For starters, he didn't know if he could walk. Not properly, not without gathering suspicion from the others with every step. Secondly... He couldn't remember where his room was. A tiny part of him struggled to kick through the fog that descended on his mind. He wasn't going to need his room. Was he? He hoped he would need it, but it wasn't a likely-

"Mr. Stark!" Stain was walking over to him, exuding a stench of sweat and fish. Tony closed his eyes for a moment, his eyebrows lifting up as he tried to combat the rising bile in his throat.

"Stain." He mumbled. His head was spinning now. It was one thing having to control his body, his gag reflex was completely another thing. When his nose brushed against a blonde wig, however, he couldn't help but leave his face there. The scent of sweet, husky perfume was far more preferable to the foul stench of decaying seafood that rolled off of their unwanted guest.

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything." He continued, his throaty voice assaulting Natasha's ears.

"Actually, we were about to..." She glanced up at Tony, then back at Stain with a little giggle. The unwillingly drugged billionaire forced himself to pull his face from her hair, and tried to hold the memory of the smell of her hair in his mind.

"Yeah. Life is short, she is hot, it's a match made in heaven. For tonight." Tony attempted to wink. Although, to Stain, it looked like a very slow, greatly exaggerated blink, accompanied by a shit-eating grin.

"Right..." He chuckled hoarsely. "Well, in that case, you two should take the North exit. Takes you right to the villas."

"You betcha." Natasha customised herself with a sickly sweet grin. He winked, then nodded curtly at Tony, who struggled not to throw up over him. Before he was granted such luxuries as purging the drug from his system, however, Natasha good-naturedly tugged him from Stain, and into the plush hallway that stemmed from the lavish ballroom.

"What a dick." Tony grumbled. Natasha didn't respond for a moment. "Romanoff... I said, what a dick."

"Yes, Stark, you did. How does that get us out of here?" She asked scathingly. He tried to shrug, and nearly slipped to the ground. His exasperated friend stumbled to the left, and managed to support him against the wall long enough to regain control of the plastered billionaire.

"Woah! Nice save, Romanoff!" He grumbled sarkily. She gritted her teeth and steered him down to the left, banking drastically into a fire escape and slumping into the small archway over the exit. Before she could lift her bracelet (which held the radio piece) to her lips, Tony caught her wrist and held it steady, preventing her from calling in back-up.

"Let go, Stark." She growled out. He shook his head stubbornly.

"No. No, we gotta talk about what happened back there."

"Oh, you mean me saving your ass?" She snarked back.

"No, I mean you going ahead and betraying us at the fucking airport, _agent_." He spat out the last word, and it hit her like acid. The anger, the implications that all she'd done was go against orders. Or...follow them.

"You need to do your homework, Stark. Steve didn't pose a threat. Neither did Barnes."

"Oh, so he's Steve? And I'm Stark. No, no, I get it now. This was all some stupid schoolgirl crush." He released her wrist and went to storm off, when her hands lashed out, twisted into the fabric of his jacket, and yanked him back, pinning him to the wall. When he made eye contact, her normal faintly amused green gaze was sparked with anger. Anger... And something else. Something vulnerable, that he hadn't exactly anticipated.

"Don't you dare downgrade me to some foolish teenager, Stark." She hissed. "You know me better than that. You know full well what I did, and still do, for a living." The engineer felt a sudden, guilty pang of guilt in his chest when he realised that her eyes were clouding over with tears. "You think I'd fall for someone like him? I made that mistake with Bruce, and it damn near broke me. Steve has a shot. It was dangling in front of him like a carrot, and you were the one who was about to tear it all down in front of him."

Tony felt like a shitbag. But he still blamed her. If the roles had been reversed, then yes, he would've done what she did. But... Through all the fog, the uncertainty and inability to act rationally, all effects of the drug... He felt too many conflicting emotions. And the truth remained concealed in his heart. I'll let you know, even if he still wants to know himself. Tony knew, deep down, that if it had been anyone but Natasha, he wouldn't have given as much of a damn.

"I had to put him away from me. Okay? Or else he would've run away. Just like Bruce. You still miss him, right? It's like a big, fucking hole in the middle of your life, and you can't fill it. Not with Rhodes, not with T'Challa, not with anyone. You know that it's gonna be worse without Steve." Her fists relaxed a touch, and her face softened. "I couldn't do that to you, Stark."

"I would've managed." He mumbled, looking down at her hands. They flattened against his chest, and pushed him back to the wall, as she took a small step back. A faint scoff escaped her.

"You think I didn't see the empty scotch bottles?" She asked him bitterly. He felt the heat rise in his face.

"I wasn't the only one who was affected, Ro-"

"Bullshit." She snapped angrily. "Bull. Shit. You know, Steve doesn't drink. There's no use. Thor has to bring him stuff. Neither of them drink scotch. Clint went back to Laura and the kids. That leaves you, and me. And I didn't do that. I just went out, tried to find him, just like you, and when all else failed, I took up assignments. No, Tony." He realised with growing sadness that that was the first time she'd said his name since Bruce disappeared. "No. You were the one who was drinking."

"You think it was easy for me? Pepper cleared off, Nat. She walked off once I started looking for him. Just like that. And I had to clean up the mess. Only I couldn't. I couldn't do jackshit without either of them. So yeah. I drank. I drank, and I drank, and I drank, and then I slept. No dreams. No, no nightmares. Just sleep." He looked up at her, rueful, unspoken apologies burning in his eyes. She didn't speak. For one full minute, they simply watched each other, consuming the words they'd spoken, the images they provided.

"You wanna know why I call you Stark?" She asked quietly, breaking the silence that had grown heavy with silent emotions.

"Shoot." He muttered. The dark haired billionaire felt a jolt of surprise when her hand, soft, cool, and heavenly, rested against his cheek.

"It's so I don't get attached." She explained. He looked up at her quizzically.

"Is it working?" He asked wryly. The muscles in his body contracted, his cheek moving against her touch, his chest squeezing. On the one hand, he rather wanted her to just leave. To walk out of his life and let him navigate through it alone. But... He didn't want to do it alone. Not any of it. He needed her. He loved her. He just fucking hated having to say it. Luckily, he didn't need to. A ghost of a smile fell on her lips, and her other arm moved up, slipping around his neck.

"Not a damn bit." She whispered. His hands flew up, landed on her waist, and pulled her in, their lips pressing together, fluttering, light at first, then joining and uniting to form a firm, passionate kiss. One that seemed to sum up exactly how much they both needed to do it in that moment.

That night, they didn't have sex. They just waited for the jet, and, remarkably, allowed the agents to handle the arms dealing that was going on inside. The engineer and the assassin walked into the jet, hand in hand, and sat together, not speaking, just waiting patiently. Once the local law enforcement had the criminals under control, the agents returned, tactfully chose not to discuss the intimate position the two were in, and returned to the base.

Tony was rich in materials. In knowledge. Wealth. Charm. But he realised that night... He was lacking in the one thing that he least expected to have needed. Love. Something that he found in bountiful quantities with Natasha Romanoff.


	12. Name: Claura

**TRIGGER WARNING:** PTSD, strong references to war zones and explosions. Huge amounts of guilt and emotional devastation for Clint. I think that's everything, but I could be wrong. **TL;DR** , Clint is forced to choose between global destruction or the ending of dozens of innocent, unaware lives on a mission. His recovery is slow and painful, but starts with his family.

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 **Authors note:** I apologise for the delay! So much has happened lately! Thank you for your patience! I realised that I screwed up by making the Fourth of July oneshot an IronWidow story, rather than a ship with Steve in it. I apologise profusely, that was not my intention! It turned out very different to what I was expecting, when I initially started the story, but I think it was okay. This one has very little to do with names. I think my idea was that Clint would associate people with names, like the baby and young man mentioned below. Reviews and prompts are, as always, graciously accepted!

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In the end, it was his arrow. Not a grenade. Not a panicked, accidental set of events, triggered by nothing more than coincidence. Not even a clumsy, blinded attempt of defense by the arms manufacturer. No. When the cards were down, and all things considered, it was Clint's arrow that set off the entire tragedy. It was Clint's arrow that put him into counselling with some middle aged woman who kept shifting from an Australian accent to a southern twang.

The day had started as planned. Natasha and himself were in the jet, riding relatively low. The drop off point was drawing near. The bomb that was being built in the abandoned hut, was exactly five miles out. Right on the borders of a village, dusted with sand, hot breezes and the gleeful shouts of young children. The Middle East provided him with a sense of mild anxiety, betrayed only by the regular spasm of his left bicep.

"So, how did Cooper like his birthday gift?" Natasha pulled him back to earth. He gave his friend a mischievous grin.

"Nobody's safe with that thing in his hands." He chuckled. On a mission in Sydney, Natasha had bought Cooper a boomerang for his birthday, signed by all the team members. Tony, of course, had to customise it. It was now trained to return to Cooper when he said a keyword, a set of voice commands controlling it to land safely in the boys grip.

"Just wait for Nathaniel's birthday." Natasha smirked, her eyes glinting cheekily. "His present is being attacked by Tony as we speak."

"Christ!" He laughed. "You know what? Laura wasn't even that mad when I got back from the holding cells. I think it's all the deadly weapons you guys are throwing to the kids that's annoying her."

"Hey! Barbie dolls are a thing of the past now." She reminded him, pulling her widow bites from the charging docks.

"And a damn crossbow is at the top of every nine year olds Christmas list, now?!" He shook his head fondly, clipping two extra sets of arrows into his calf holster.

"Never turn your nose up at a Stark brand weapon, Barton." Tony's voice drawled over the earpiece. Clint rolled his eyes wearily. "I saw that!" Tony sang.

"Saw what, Stark?" The exasperated archer asked. Natasha glanced up and raised an eyebrow at him. A shadow of a smile fell across his face, and he shrugged apologetically. It was an unspoken rule that the jet ride was time, carved out of the mission, for them to loosen up and relax before commencing the assigned mission. Tony was eating up their precious minutes.

"The middle finger you're waving around." He replied childishly. Natasha broke into an amused smirk, and returned her attention to the map, shaking her head exasperatedly. Clint didn't even try to obscure his triumph. He released a loud, victorious bark of laughter, and slotted a few magazines into his chest pocket for Natasha's guns.

"Nice try, Stark! Are the CCTV cameras in here Stark brand, or SHIELD?"

"Dick." Tony tossed back. Clint and Natasha could practically hear his eyes rolling at their antics. The pilot gave them the thumbs up, and the two agents reluctantly sobered up. "Alright now, kids, I'll see you at lunchtime. Unless you're too cool to sit with your uncle Tony."

"Bullseye! And on the first shot, too!" Clint mockingly applauded him. Tony chuckled faintly, then connected the wiring from the camera in the teddy bears eye, to the movable limbs, controlled by a remote for the soon-to-be two year old Nathaniel.

* * *

Lunchtime came and went. Tony Stark didn't receive a phone call from either of the agents. At first, he thought nothing of it. The two frequently did that. Make a dramatic entrance or whatever. Tony didn't particularly see the appeal. What was a dramatic entrance without a few fireworks? But this time, the delay was drastically enhanced by the gradual increase in news reports surrounding Borla, the region they were entering. And they weren't good news reports, either.

* * *

Apparently, the local army force had been drawn by the gunfire that was exchanged between Natasha, Clint, and the few agents that insisted on accompanying them, and the opposition. What had started as a contained exchange of bullets, had quickly tumbled into a cataclysmic whirlpool of explosions, frantic shrieks for mercy and aid, bloodshed, and death.

The men who had been manufacturing and selling the weapons off to wealthy buyers, had used the onslaught of army personnel as an escape route, blending through the crowds like lethal shadows. Natasha had agreed to take the left side of the town, and evacuated as many people as she could while putting down several of the oppositions men. Of the six agents who accompanied her, four survived with scrapes and bruises, one broke his tibia, and Agent Milton was killed by a nine millimetre to the forehead.

Clint took four agents, albeit reluctantly. Before he rejoined with Natasha and her groupies, as he light heartedly referred to them as, he took out six on foot, and five jeeps that had strayed from the population of the town. Two agents were rewarded with burns to their backs as they fled a rogue grenade blast, one broke her arm whilst evacuating a crowded hut, and the fourth guy managed to get to the jet with a nasty cut to the side of his head, the result of a bullet he narrowly managed to avoid.

So, out of the ten agents, only six remained to bear witness to what Clint would later describe as the most harrowing event he'd seen in his life. Eight, if you counted himself and Natasha.

It all came down to time. The lack of time, the limited time. The few seconds it takes to load up an arrow and let it soar into the target. And then, the extra second it took to check to see the type of arrow he was using. The only arrow left in his quiver was an explosive tip, one that he was extremely reluctant to use, given the predicament.

The few remaining men who'd fled the warehouse on foot, had stolen a truck, dumped their weapons and blueprints inside, and then headed towards the most densely populated part of the town, through the small market stalls, sheer luck stepping in along the way so that the civilians could jump to one side quickly.

However, Clint had taken the rooftops, and was just sprinting after the truck when he saw it slow to a halt at the edge of the city. Just behind it, stood a school, filled with kids and a smattering of parents and teachers. And judging by the shit eating grin on the drivers face, it was all very much planned.

"Barton, whaddaya doin'?! What's the matter? Take the damn shot, already, an' let's get outta here!" A whiny voice commanded into his ear. He felt a cold sweat run down his back.

"I can't. I can't take the shot, there's too many civilians." He insisted. A young man was holding a baby just a few feet from the truck.

"What's he sayin', Romanoff?" The same voice asked. Natasha was a quarter of a mile to the south of him, and was steering the civilians back to their homes. "Romanoff, you copy?"

"You heard me loud and clear, Johnson!" Clint snapped angrily. What kind of heartless bastard was running this operation? "I take the shot, a whole lotta innocent people die." The man looked an awful lot like Pietro. The build, the messy hair, the young age...

"You don't take the shot," Johnson was quick to inform him in a nasal drawl, "We lose 'em. We lose 'em, then that means thousands of other innocent people die. Who'd you rather it be, Barton? Us? Or th-"

"Johnson, fuck off! Clint, it's your call." Natasha was just crossing the little gap between the building he was standing on, and the top of the rusty, abandoned bus she was just perching on. Clint wasn't able to tear his gaze from the young man and the baby. Baby... Nathaniel.

"What? No, it isn't, you stupid bitch!" That earned Johnson a cold look from Natasha, one that, of course, he couldn't see. He was gonna get his ass kicked across the planet when they got back, that much was for sure. "Listen to me, Barton! Those pricks have grenades in there! All those blueprints, they could spell out the end of the world. You take that fucking shot, and don't think twice about it."

"I'll kill the other civilians-"

"And it's bad, sure. But we can cover it up! Blame it on a faulty gasoline in the truck! It won't go back to you. It's for the greater good, Barton!" Johnson was trying to sound optimistic. It sounded more like he was trying to shove golden syrup into their ears. "Shit! They're on the move! Barton, it's now or never!" Clint felt his muscles contract. His final arrow from the quiver was slotted into place. The selection of normal arrows were down by his ankle, held in rigid grips that attached to the cuff of his pants.

"Sir, if you could give me a little time-!"

"What fucking time, Barton?! Take. The damn. SHOT!" Johnson barked. And normally, Clint would've been able to give him a massive fuck you and ignored the order. But his nerves were jagged. They'd lost an agent. Three more needed immediate medical help. Children were screaming around the truck. The truck was moving. The truck was moving. The blueprints were being taken... His fingertips jerked out of the way, and the explosive arrow soared through the stifling hot air, piercing the back of the truck with a metallic screech.

In the end, the only preceding signs of the chaos that followed were a series of rapid beeps, then a bright, red flash. And then, an explosion ripped through the truck, and a deafening boom filled the air, with such velocity, that all the windows in a twenty feet radius were shattered. Clint stumbled back, Natasha running over to support him and pull him back. He shielded his eyes, trying to block her from the sight. But she'd seen it.

"Clint! Clint, we can't stay here! Come on! We gotta move!" She ordered.

"Th-The kids, Tash!"

"No, no, we can't save them, Clint! We can't save them. It's too late, okay? We have orders." When he turned around, dazed, he saw the grim set in her jaw, the anger in her eyes. It all softened once she saw the vulnerability in her best friend's gaze.

"I..." He, for the first time in years, was lost for words.

"Clint... We need to get back to the jet."

"We can still get them help! If we just-"

"Barton. Get your ass on that jet right now, or God help me-" Johnson's guttural threat was cut off sharply, and Clint's struggle to free himself from Natasha's grip slowed

down slightly when he realised she was removing his earpieces.

"I'm not so sure He'd want to after what you just did." She growled into the small microphone, before switching it off and stuffing it into her pocket. "Clint... This wasn't your fault."

"I..." He turned back wildly to the blazing, screaming, searing chaos, bringing his hands to his head. This was his doing. He was the one who fired the arrow. His arrow. It was his arrow. It didn't matter that Tony designed it, or that Thor advised them on the aerodynamics. In the end, he was the one who fucked up. Colossally. Entirely... He ran both hands back over his head, rubbing his hair as tears began to gather.

"It wasn't your fault. But we gotta get you to the jet, alright? The medics are coming, but we have no idea if there's a trap down there."

"A trap?! Nat, I killed all those... All... O-Oh fuck... They looked like them! They looked like P-Pietro and Nathaniel, and I fucking killed them..."

"You're going into shock, Clint. Clint? Clint, do you copy?" Natasha was trying her best to reach him. But her entire heart was shattered by the realisation that her best friend was on the verge of complete hysteria. "Clint!" And then, a voice crackled on over the radio. The one line of communication that was exclusively the teams.

"Agent Barton." Tony's voice was quiet, firm, and authoritative, but to his ever-lasting gratitude, Clint heard the sincerity of the billionaire's attempt of saving him. "Agent Barton, your primary objective has been met. Return to base for reassignment and mandatory therapy."

Had it not been for the clear, kind, yet undeniably professional tones used by Tony, Natasha later admitted that she wasn't sure Clint would've even made it back home. A hush fell over the entire base when Clint returned with Natasha, although he didn't get off the jet. In fact, he didn't leave it for five hours. The only reason he left, was because Wanda found out, and sat with him for thirty minutes. Then, she was able to ease him outside, where he numbly and wordlessly signed up for mandatory therapy sessions, once per day.

The first two days, he'd sat there silently, staring at the ceiling, while the therapist alternated between an Australian accent and a strong Southern-Belle twang, drawling about emotions and acceptance and unnecessary guilt, until it all fell into the same drone. Around day three, he responded to a remark she made about fatherhood. When he didn't return, Steve went in the next day to the exasperated therapist, and listened to the recording.

"You sure you don't want to talk about it?" She had asked in an accent not unlike one commonly found in Sydney. There was a sound of a sigh, a male sigh, followed by the rustling of pages. "Clinton, I'm afraid I must insist." That had pissed Steve off to a considerable degree. But he restrained his rage long enough to hear the full thing. "I think I've had enough of this brooding silence shit." She had snapped, a Southern drawl returning to her voice. "You know what? The more you bottle this up, the more likely it is that your little boy is gonna join the death toll."

A long, heavy silence followed; the heaviest, thickest silence. Steve's head tilted back, and the therapist nodded sympathetically. When she opened her mouth to speak, Steve raised a finger, his jaw set with rage. She was going to be the first woman he'd ever hit if she said a single word while he was in that room with her. The recording was silent for a full twelve seconds before the next words were uttered.

"Excuse me?" Clint's voice was hoarse and shaky.

"You heard me. Agent Barton, you keep that bottled up, and-"

"Stay away from me."

"Sit down!" Her voice had a shrill tone to it.

"Just try it, see what happens! Screw you!" There was a clattering sound, and then a slamming door. Steve switched off the recorder, then stood up.

"You need to have a word with your friend about-"

"Firing you? Trust me. No words are necessary. Pack your things, get out, and pray to God that I can get through to him by tomorrow, or else you're gonna live to regret ever, ever saying that to him." He snatched up the recorder and stormed out, making sure the door slammed hard behind him. Peter and Natasha stood up instantly, and he tossed the recorder into Natasha's hands.

"What happened?"

"Not now. Peter, I need you to check the CCTV cameras. Natasha, grab Anthony and try all his numbers." He growled. "I'm gonna check the rooms with Wanda."

"Shouldn't we get Vision? O-Or Thor? Thor's friend could-"

"Not now, Peter, just check the damn CCTV!" Steve knocked distractedly on Wanda's door, then began to search the living area. Natasha nodded grimly at the youngest Avenger, and then headed off to try and find Tony. She knew all too well that, when the good Captain used their full names, he was incredibly pissed off.

Clint was hiding in the target practice fields. The storage unit for the polishing rags, gloves, and mannequins, had heating units, and following an incident during a blizzard, also had preserved food. But he didn't touch any of it. He hadn't eaten anything since the explosion. He just wanted to go home. He... He wanted to hold Laura in his arms, to memorise every last bit of her heavenly face.

He wanted to sleep beside her, or just stand in her presence, drinking in her beauty. He wanted to play baseball with Cooper, or to tease him about his latest girlfriend (Riri Williams, because apparently, being the son of Hawkeye wasn't famous enough, he had to have Iron-Girl as a girlfriend). He wanted to sit with Lila and have a tea party with her, to pour out the imaginary blends, or to feed one of her rag dolls the delicious delicacies that his nine year old couldn't yet cook, but was excellent at whipping up out of thin air.

He wanted to pull Nathaniel from his crib at three in the morning, to set his youngest son on his knee and raise him right. He wanted to go on long walks with Nathaniel in his pram, Lila pulling out wild flowers from the woods near their house, Cooper distractedly texting his friends about the latest video games, or grinning absently at some hilarious thing that Riri sent him. Laura laughing at her kids, or smiling at nothing, or her hands, those soft, small, perfect hands, resting on his arm.

He wanted his family. Not some impatient woman who recorded everything and rolled her eyes at his silence. Not the pitiful stares from the agents who dropped by. Not this family, the same family he'd fled from back in that mission. But the family he'd made with Laura. The family that all began on a warm autumn day in September. The family that started when a woman with eyes the colour of chocolate tried to settle an argument with her friends, by placing a blazing leaf against her perfect, soft mane of brown hair, and asking him if she should dye it to match the leaf.

When Steve found him with Peter, he didn't even need to consult with the team. They all packed his things for him, while Tony helped to shave him, and Sam cleaned him up, having done it enough times with traumatised colleagues in the battlefield. Natasha called ahead, and when he returned to his home, his beautiful, perpetually developing farmhouse, Laura was waiting.

She'd tactfully sent the kids to bed, although Cooper was gone out with friends to a movie. Clint dropped his duffle bag the second he saw her, and pulled her into his arms, gathering her up, one hand resting on her lower back, the other buried into her silky curtain of dark hair, his face buried into it, inhaling the fragrance of her shampoo, perfume, her natural scent. And he didn't have to say a single word. She simply held him tight, her voice pulling all his jagged pieces back together. "It's going to be alright, baby." She whispered softly.

Clint held her for close to three minutes, tears running down his shaven cheeks, and then finally let go of her, although she took his hand and guided him back inside anyway, leaving his bag on the front porch. Lila was dozing peacefully in a camp bed beside Nathaniel's crib. It was funny. He remembered talking about how much he hated camping before he left. And, as a premature sign of rebellion, she's taken out all her pocket money, gone into a dollar store with her Auntie Nat, and returned with a fold-up camp bed.

Careful not to make a single sound, he knelt beside her bed, and pressed a soft, gentle kiss to her forehead, one hand gently cradling her messy head of curls. Her mothers hair, he thought with a tearful smile. Without removing his hand from her head, he gently brushed Nathaniel's soft cheek with the back of his finger, and gazed at his youngest son and only daughter with complete and total adoration. Laura slipped in beside him, and ran her fingers through his hair tenderly, smiling sadly as his head leaned to the side to rest against her faintly rounded stomach.

Before he got the chance to ask about the welfare of their fourth child, there was a faint sound of the front door opening, a small dragging sound as Cooper wiped his feet on the doormat, and then quietly audible footsteps coming up the stairs. Then, his fourteen year old son, the little man, walked inside, and set his fathers bag down like a newborn baby. "Hey, son." Clint whispered hoarsely.

"Hey, pops." Cooper grinned, then walked over to embrace the drained, but slowly rejuvenating father. And Clint held onto his children and wife, seeing hope and light for the first time in five days


End file.
